


A Lead Weight

by orphan_account



Category: Samurai Flamenco
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hazama isn’t perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lead Weight

**Author's Note:**

> Something quick. Minor spoilers up until episode 6-ish.

\---

The underside of his body armor pressed against his chest in awkward places, a thin line of plastic striking his lower ribs with each exhalation. He reached to adjust it but his hands slipped, fumbling down his chest and curling inwards. Air pushed its way into his lungs. It rattled down his throat, slipping past clenched teeth.

The sirens were a distant wail. He didn’t have to run so far, but something spurred him on. Goto had said the police didn’t care anymore. _Goto_ was probably the one picking the criminals off the ground and handcuffing their wrists. He managed to pull some of the armor loose, gasping as sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes, urging him on. He had been careful. Hours of practice had honed his accuracy. Steel only struck where he willed it. Goto had shrugged as if to say that the police _really_ didn’t care anymore.

Finally he stopped, whirling into the aluminum side of a storage shed and pressing his back against the doors, shoulder blades digging in and aching from the impact, rattling the hinges. He stood and breathed, sour sweat pooling on his brow. The heavy orange of dawn broke over the horizon, casting a sudden urgency in its wake. Light struck the metallic silver of the doors, the glare digging into his eyes. Belatedly, Hazama realized how tired he was.

He changed in the tall shadow of a nearby dumpster, wrinkling his nose at the stench of his overshirt. The Samurai Flamenco logo was weathered around the edges. Throwing the shirt in the washing machine would only erode it further, but he had no choice and it could always be mended or replaced, provided he had the time to do so.

There were no missed calls on his cell phone. His only unread texts were some from Mari which, judging by the subject lines, were bound to be exhausting. He cared for her, but he also feared her.

Earlier that night, something had begun to blur.

When his staples struck, they did with a force and flash like the fall of Mari’s mace. A fallen man had cried and wailed and Hazama had stood over him, looked down, and wished for nothing but absolute silence.

He had strayed.

Thankfully Goto wasn’t breaking down his door with reports of ‘excessive violence’ and ‘public outcry’, but the suggestion, the shadow, that his gaze could match Mari’s made him suddenly, desperately afraid.

Curled on his side and in his day-old clothes, he fell asleep to episode 19 of the Color Rangers, the leader shouting for his archrival to grab his hand as he slipped into the chasm below. The archrival would be too proud to do so and vanish for 23 episodes only turn up for a brief cameo in the disappointing sequel, Color Rangers Vividocity. Eight hours later, he blearily reached for his phone and checked for a second time. Goto had texted with the usual _“those guys were pretty big. Be careful next time idiot.”_ and Mari had offered for the umpteenth time to put him in touch with her weapons manufacture, claiming that _“offce supplies are stupid so I dont knw how you expect any1 to take yuo seriously out there!”_. He checked the usual sites following Samurai Flamenco and found reports on the four men found last night, one reporter eagerly speculating that Flamenco would start fighting with a bow and arrow next week, but there was nothing, _nothing_ on any unnecessary brutality. If it hadn’t been for the sudden rush of adrenaline when the men had jumped him, he would have been able to remember the events more clearly. As it was, a persistent haze remained. He scoured the reports for some clue, some inconsequential but unique detail that would jog his memory and confirm that, yes, he hadn’t given in to the dark thought, but none came.

\---

Goto entered the apartment with his usual scowl and bag full of cheap snacks. When he pulled out a wrinkled pack of cigarettes, Hazama shoved him onto the balcony, barely giving him time to climb back into his coat before the cold air hit.

“Hard ass,” he muttered, flipping up his collar and scrounging for a lighter. Hazama joined him in a Color Rangers sweatshirt and matching beanie, ignoring how Goto muttered something like _“Shopping in the kid’s department again?”_ around his cigarette.

“You complain a lot,” Hazama observed.

“Last time I checked, complaining isn’t against the law.”

He smiled. “Lucky for you it isn’t.”

Goto rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Next to you, Mr. Law Abiding Citizen, I’m a regular criminal.” He tapped some ash into the tray Hazama had specifically bought for him, the blue trim matching the colour of his uniform. Goto had, predictably, rolled his eyes at the gift. “Tell me, Samenco,” he began, “how exactly are your weapons street legal?”

“Technically they’re office supplies,” Hazama said. “You can’t arrest me for office supplies.”

Grimacing, Goto replied, “Well, I could always give it a try… Actually, the real question is why is it so _cold_ all of a sudden?”

He shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to.” Goto exhaled, the smoke catching the wind and drifting away. “Just more complaining on my part.”

“I’m getting used to that.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Suddenly, he wanted Goto to look at him, to closely, purposefully look at him and tell him if anything was wrong. There had to be a mark on his face or tilt to his expression that would suddenly, purposefully reveal that something was wrong. He was simply too transfixed to see the obvious fault. He needed another set of eyes, a pair unclouded and focused and _clear_. Grey ash softened and tipped down into the half-full tray, small particles being carried away by the wind, rendering their descent incomplete. One of Goto’s nails was too short, bearing the agitated red of a fresh tear. He bit his nails. He worried.

Hazama turned away and watched the clouds thin.

When Goto finally left, his image remained.

\---

He found Flamenco Diamond on her own for the night.

“Sapphire hurt her ankle during practice this morning. Ruby’s on watch,” she said with a yawn, not specifying whether it was dance practice or not. Mari seemed like the kind of person fond of boot camps at the crack of dawn and training regiments crafted with only intensity in mind, an aspect of which he could respect.

“I hope she’s alright,” Hazama replied, half-watching Mari as he scanned a nearby street. She was toying with her baton, making the spikes burst forth and then retract; something about the timing was unsatisfactory and she cursed wildly.

“You _think_ someone who fights in high heels would be able to walk in them, but,” she paused to crank a dial embedded in the handle, her expression brightening at the result, “I guess Sapphire is the exception to that rule. Maybe I’ll have to put her in flats like Ruby… Urgh. Of course, that _completely_ ruins Sapphire’s concept.” The spikes retracted instantaneously, perfectly concealed in the baton. “What a waste.”

He frowned. “I’m sure she’s working very hard. Please be kind to Sapphire.”

To his surprise, Mari laughed. “Oh come _on_ , Samumenco. You really don’t have to worry about that. My Sapphire adores her Diamond and that’s all there is to it. Now,” she turned to face him, falling into a stylized pose, “it’s time for this artist to paint the town red. I’m going left. If you want to join in on the fun, Flamurai, just follow the screams.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded and turned right. Mari’s laughter should have followed her, but it didn’t, lingering in strange places, brushing against the sharp clang of metal hitting concrete or the screech of spinning tires. He righted a fallen bicycle and the struck bell sounded her name. Cigarette smoke billowed out of a nearby restaurant and the smell of grilled meat sank into his clean scarf. He breathed in. Mari was gone.

After cleaning some wet flyers off the sidewalk, he drifted into a residential area. He neatly straightened the discarded children’s toys left on some front steps. He spent hours this way, finding purpose in correcting little acts of negligence: garbage bags spilling out onto the street, aluminum cans left rolling idly with the breeze. He collected scraps of plastic waste, sorted the glass and cans he found. A tacky residue was left on his gloves. His scarf smelt vaguely of exhaust. Mari was probably electrocuting someone in a dark alley, laughing all the while.

As he retraced his steps, he found a missing poster for a cat that had been torn from the wall. The poster had been written with a child’s hand. After repairing it with some tape, he continued on, drilling the details into his mind: _“answers to Yuki, 3 years old, please find her”_.

He found Mari instead, her heels clicking on the ground and not a bloodied man’s belt buckle. After popping her gum at him, she observed, “Slow night, huh?”

He nodded.

“Wanna team up for a bit?”

He shook his head. He found the tip of her baton just inches from his face.

“You’re not an _imposter_ , are you?”

“No,” he said, pushing it away with his gloved hand. Mari’s nose wrinkled when she saw his off-white palms. “No, I just…”

“What?”

“I… Never mind. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I should-”

Folding her arms, Mari leveled him with a withering glare. Even with his scarf up and his goggles tight against his face, her eyes were picking him apart, cutting ribbons into his flesh, watching him squirm.

Carefully, she asked, “Masayoshi, _what_ is it?”

He turned away. “It’s nothing. I-”

A chunk of plaster flew off the wall next to his head and Mari yanked her baton back with an audible crack. Chalk-white dust clouded his goggles but he didn’t dare move, not when Mari had already slipped back into her preferred stance, feet spread, shoulders back, dominant arm tightly wound.

“Tell me!” Her heel hit the ground with a sharp click. “Stop wasting _both_ of our time and spit it out!”

“Property damage,” he muttered out of habit. “Willful destruction of property.” The glint in her eyes told him that, given the opportunity, she would gladly do it again. “I… The other night, I may have…” Air rattled down his throat. “I may have gone too far and-” That was it. There was nothing more. It had left his mind, been formed into sound.

“ _May_ have? So you didn’t, right?” Mari asked, strangely calm.

He stumbled. “I… I don’t think so. I don’t quite remember, but the police haven’t said anything so…”

“Alright, so what’s the problem then? Clearly you _didn’t_ go against your little heroic ideals so, as I just said, what’s the problem? Why are you freaking out? Hey. _Hey_.” Her hand touched his face through the scarf. “You’re alright, aren’t you?”

He nodded, absently pushing her away. “Yes, thank you.”

“You liar,” she muttered.

_Liar_

Heroes flirted with lying, donning their masks and chosen names, fumbling through excuses for _“Where have you been all day?”_ and _“Why couldn’t I reach you?”_. Certain lies came easily. Others were weighted like lead, buried deep inside, poisoning.

“Hey.” Mari caught his arm. “Look, I… I can’t help you with whatever you’re going through. I know that. _You_ know that.”

He tried to smile, even if she couldn’t see it. “Thank you, Diamond. I-”

“I’m not done,” she snapped, her red eyes, artificially bright, narrowed as they passed over his face. “I want to know why you told me any of this because it really doesn’t make any sense. You have _no reason_ to talk to me like this. It’s rash. It’s _stupid_ and it’s...” She faltered, glancing down at the space between them. “It’s not _you_.” Her grip tightened.

“I think I had to get it off my chest and I…couldn’t tell Goto,” he said and her head snapped back up, gloved hands digging into his arm, sure to bruise. “I tried and I just couldn’t.”

“You should tell him,” she murmured. “He cares about you. He’s the type who always knows what to say.”

“I couldn’t.” A distant siren wailed. Goto bit his nails and drank too much; he worried. “I _can’t_.”

They separated, Mari chasing after the siren.

Hazama managed to clear four blocks on his own before a steel pipe came swinging for his face. He ducked, the pipe going high and smashing through a street sign, splintering wood. The man’s knee collided with his stomach, impacting the thick body armor and stealing the air from his lungs, dexterous hands pausing for one deadly second as they grasped his weapons, tape unfurling. He went for the wrists first, locking them together in one smooth motion as he ducked the second blow. He went for the knees next, one quick step placing his heel in a critical place and he pushed down with all his weight, eliciting a scream, bringing the man down hard. Spread fingers manipulated the tape, tying the ankles, shutting an open mouth. New sirens broke through the night; he was part of a spectacle, dozens of cell phones alit and recording. The man had attacked him. He was innocent, blameless.

Still, he ran.

\---


End file.
